A LONDON YEAR

The line of colour flashes on. The voice of the
expectant pink monster rises jerkily, uncertain,
almost angry.

No one will easily forget those crouching riders,
the horse ahead, two more neck and neck, the
thunder of hoofs, the flying clods of earth, and the
voice of the crowd rising higher and higher, till,
with a burst that rockets up to the clouds, the name
of the winner crystallizes out of uncertainty.

So another Derby is over. Men and women shake
hands like children, laugh, shout with pleasure, or,
with philosophic smiles, start for home.